Chapter 1

The black envelope slid across the polished mahogany table with a whisper that sounded louder than a scream. It stopped perfectly between my untouched crème brûlée and his empty wine glass.

"For your tuition, my dear," Mr. Silas said. His voice was like the room itself—velvet, heavy, and expensive. "And perhaps some new brushes. Talent like yours shouldn't be stifled by poverty."

I smiled, ducking my head in a practiced performance of shy gratitude. "You’re too generous, Silas. I don't know how to thank you."

"Your company is payment enough," he replied, dabbing his mouth with a linen napkin.

Under the table, my hand tightened around the handle of the silver-plated steak knife I had swiped during the main course. My palm was sweating, but my resolve was iron. He thought he was buying a desperate student, a pretty little thing to decorate his arm at the opera. He didn't know he was financing his own execution.

This was for the Resistance. This was for every girl who had vanished into the back of a black town car, never to be seen again. My heart hammered against my ribs, a war drum beating the rhythm of a martyr. I would die tonight—I accepted that. But my death would be the spark that burned his empire to ash. It was a noble trade. An inspiring end.

"A toast," I said, my voice trembling just enough to sell the nerves. I reached for the bottle of vintage Pinot Noir. I had spiked it in the decanter while he was in the restroom. Concentrated wolfsbane. Enough to stop a heart ten times the size of a human’s.

I poured the dark red liquid into his glass.

"To the arts," I whispered, raising my own glass.

Silas smiled. It was a charming smile, showing perfect, white teeth. "To the hunt."

He drank.

I watched, holding my breath, waiting for the choke. Waiting for the aconite to constrict his throat, for the panic to set in. That was when I would strike. That was when I would carve the symbol of the resistance into his chest.

Silas swallowed. He swirled the remaining wine in the glass, inhaling the bouquet deeply.

"Notes of blackberry," he mused, looking at the ceiling. "Oak. And... is that almond?" He looked at me, his eyes twinkling in the candlelight. "No. Not almond. Aconite. A bold vintage, Elena."

My blood froze. The glass slipped from my fingers, shattering on the marble floor.

"You knew," I gasped.

"My dear girl," Silas chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "I have been drinking poison since before your great-grandmother was born. It adds a certain... zest. Like a spicy pepper."

He wasn't choking. He wasn't dying. He was enjoying it.

"I am not a girl," I spat, abandoning the act. I stood up, kicking the chair back. "I am a soldier. And you are a parasite."

"A soldier," Silas repeated, looking amused. "Is that what they told you? They sent a child to kill a god with a garnish?"

"My death will matter!" I screamed, the words rehearsed a thousand times in the mirror. This was my moment. The speech that would echo through history. "When they find my body, they will know! I am the first of many! We will rise up, and we will drag you from your ivory towers into the light!"

I lunged.

I put every ounce of my strength, every ounce of my hatred, into the thrust. The silver knife aimed straight for his left eye.

Silas didn't dodge. He didn't even stand up.

He raised his hand.

*Clang.*

He caught the blade. He caught the sharp, silver-plated edge with his bare palm.

Smoke hissed from his skin. The smell of burning meat filled the small, airless room. But he didn't flinch. He didn't scream.

He squeezed.

With a sound like a dry twig snapping, the silver knife shattered in his grip. Fragments of metal rained onto the tablecloth.

"An inspiring speech," Silas said. His voice had changed. It was lower now, a wet, distorted growl that vibrated in the floorboards. "It had passion. Texture."

He stood up.

The shadows in the room seemed to stretch toward him, wrapping around his tuxedo. His shoulders broadened, the fabric tearing with a soft *rip*. His jaw unhinged, the bone cracking loudly as his face elongated.

"It will add excellent flavor to the meat."

I scrambled back, hitting the heavy, velvet-covered wall. "Help!" I screamed. "Someone help me!"

Silas loomed over the table, his eyes now two burning coals of hellish red. He smiled, and his mouth was full of needles.

"Scream all you like, little artist," the thing that used to be Silas gurgled. "The walls are soundproof. I paid extra for that."

I looked at the door. Locked. I looked at the shattered knife. Useless.

My noble sacrifice. My inspiring death.

No one would ever know. I wouldn't be a symbol. I would just be a missing person report. Another girl who got into a car she shouldn't have.

The candlelight flickered and died as the shadow engulfed me. The last thing I heard wasn't the roar of the revolution, but the wet snap of teeth closing in the dark.